Livingston, I Presume

The actual Christmas

I realize perhaps that in my previous holiday-themed postings, you in the Internet might have gotten the impression that things did not go well at our house for Christmas. I can't just leave you with that impression. Because despite the expensive, non-starter prime rib and the Christmas Eve with the radiologist, we had a great time.

It was the first year that we have hosted my parents for Christmas Day, as before that we've always either been 17,000 miles away or gone to one of our parents' houses for Christmas. Since we had gone to Great Falls for Thanksgiving and will be going again in January for Alex's wedding--oh, and don't forget that in work-fascist America, we only get the one day off, because God forbid we should have an extra day or two to spend with family--we decided to see what we could come up with at our house.

We decided to do Czech Christmas Eve, minus the carp, because, ew. Instead we made smazeny kureci rizek (chicken schnitzel), which I have on good authority is often served to the carp-reluctant, and potato salad and sweet and sour red cabbage. The cabbage we improvised on because we couldn't think of any other Czech vegetable option that didn't involve deep frying or soup. The whole enterprise was not a particular hit with Connery, but we thought it was marvelous and will probably keep it as a tradition for future years. Maybe with some Czech Christmas music next time.

Connery is now the proud owner of two pirate ships, enough to have his own tiny armada, and I will be able to have a spa afternoon one of these dark and dreary winter days. We also got new flatware and a griddle to replace the one that died (and is currently, if you care, running at one of five stars at Target.com in customer reviews due to its pesky tendency to burst into flames).

Christmas Day was spent entirely in pajamas, which should really be done with more frequency, and the dinner (turkey, as predicted) turned out very well. Overall, it was quite relaxing and all the more enjoyable for the drama leading up to it. And there's the impression I want to leave you with, Internet.

All he wants for Christmas is a chest x-ray

It could be a sign that your Christmas festivities are not off to a good start when they necessitate The Rug Doctor and a trip to the pediatrician's office.

We have been dreading the possible moment when one of us catches the malevolent stomach bug that's been going around town. We know two people who ended up at the emergency room as a result, and I've been washing my hands like Lady MacBeth with OCD trying to prevent it. It seemed all of our hygienic efforts had been for naught when, on Saturday night--mere minutes after he'd been put to bed--Connery pulled an Exorcist all over his (need I say) carpeted bedroom. We thought for sure that we were in for it, and spent the night on high alert, buckets at the ready.

Fortunately, the onslaught never came. Unfortunately, it distracted us somewhat from the developing bronchial issues--at least until next evening, when we spent much of the night trying to make sure that he hadn't coughed up a lung. By Christmas Eve, we knew a doctor's visit was necessary. We didn't know that the doctor's visit would turn into a hospital visit for a chest x-ray, which confirmed that he had bronchitis.

Several milliliters of oral steroids and antibiotics later, he was on the mend, and Christmas actually turned out to be quite relaxing and enjoyable. It could be perhaps that the contrast made it all that much nicer. Here's to a 2008 that does not include nearly so many exciting trips to the doctor. Except for that pesky baby-having in May, of course.

Merry belated Christmas to those of you who celebrate it, and early New Year's greetings, too.

Humiliation at the meat shop*

I went shopping for some roast beast for Christmas today, and it didn't go at all well. I went to a wonderful local meat shop, the kind of place where they raise the meat they sell and believe fervently in sustainable agriculture and all the other great things you'd hope for when you have to go and buy a dead animal to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Plus, the meat there is probably at least 627 percent tastier than the meat I buy normally at the supermarket.

So I was chatting amiably with the owner, getting some ideas of what would be good, and she recommended the prime rib. She had the recipe readily available and I was quite sure it would be heaven in a roasting pan. There were a couple of items that the recipe required that I didn't have, like reduced veal broth, but I figured I could add a little extra garlic and it would turn out fine. Besides, that reduced veal broth packet was $4.99! Who's going to pay that? I did get the dried mushrooms, though. After all, it's Christmas!

All was merry and gay until she rang up my total. It was almost $100, and the mushrooms were only $3, so you can do the math. I must have turned white or red or perhaps green because she kind of looked at me funny and said something along the lines of,"It's expensive, but it's to die for!" Then she quickly asked if I still wanted it. I laughed weakly and nodded, handing over my credit card.

I walked out of the shop in what can only be described as a meat haze and put the prime rib in the passenger seat next to me, briefly considering putting the seatbelt on it in case I had an accident. Then I sat there. I knew I was going to have to return it, but I could hardly bear the thought of walking back in there and admitting that I could not, under any circumstances, spend $100 on a beef roast to feed four adults. Briefly I considered peeling off the price tag so that at least no one would know that I had bought diamond-encrusted beef, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep a secret like that. Plus, if I didn't return it, we would have eat it with Ramen noodles, which is not really a traditional Christmas side.

I picked it up, went back into the shop, apologized profusely, and gave up the lovely prime rib. They refunded my card and didn't even get pissed off or look at me like I was some kind of idiot. Which of course I was. Now, much like my grandfather felt he could never go back to Pamida (a blog post all its own), I feel I can never go back to the meat shop.

And I guess we'll have turkey.

*Morrisey, when you use this title on your next album, I expect some credit.

Quote of the day from three weeks ago

"The truth ain't like puppies, a bunch of 'em runnin' around and you pick your favorite."

--Emerson Cod, Pushing Daisies, November 29th episode
 

Future paper versus current plastic

For a very long time, I was certain that fake Christmas trees were better all around than real ones. In my family, we were fond of quoting a Saturday Night Live sketch that encapsulated our worldview on the fake versus real debate: "In the spirit of Christmas, I killed a tree for you."

Somewhere along the line, that conviction has begun to waver. In Prague, we had real trees for the years we spent Christmas there, not wanting to have yet another fake tree in our possession since we were keeping one in storage in the United States. Chip really liked the real trees, and that's also what he grew up with. I felt torn about it and then increasingly irritated as the needles littered the living room, despite our ministrations. The crowning glory of our last real tree was a hugely tall spruce that came close to touching our turn-of-the-last-century ceilings and had to be decorated with a ladder. We got an extra sense of just how tall it was when the cats climbed it at about 12:30 Christmas night, pulling it over in a shower of needles and sap and ornaments and necessitating its midnight disposal.

All of which is a long way of saying that I'm still sold on the convenience factor of fake trees, especially now that some of them come pre-lighted. (Not ours.) What I'm not so clear on anymore is the environmental virtue of keeping a fake tree versus "killing" a live one. This article on Slate does a pretty good job of laying out the pros and cons, and the author ultimately comes down on the side of real trees as friendlier to the environment, mainly because of the disposal issue.

As our artificial Christmas tree reaches the decade marker, we are already thinking about next year and what we will do. Will we buy a new fake tree or take advantage of the numerous farmed real trees in this area? We're leaning toward the latter.

What's in your house this Christmas, if you're celebrating? 

If that were true, I'd be Thai...or maybe Austrian

There's a Mexican restaurant in town--part of a little Western chain, actually--called Fiesta en Jalisco. Connery would eat there for every meal if we'd let him. And he would always get the same thing: a plate of rice and beans. No tacos, no tostadas, and for God's sake no fajitas. Just rice and beans, please--and make it snappy.

Yesterday evening, with Chip safely at home from his Chicago trip--sadly minus his luggage, which United Airlines managed to lose on a direct flight into Bozeman--we decided to celebrate with dinner out. Despite the fact that Connery and I had gone there just a few days ago, he begged us to go to the Mexican place. "I love rice and beans!" he told us plaintively. We acknowledged his love and went on discussing where we would go to eat. He got more insistent. "I want to go there. I love rice and beans! Because I'm Mexican!"

Interesting.

But guess where we ate? The boy's no fool.

Love it

Seven years ago tomorrow, I read my own political obituary in a judgment that seemed to me harsh and mistaken — if not premature. But that unwelcome verdict also brought a precious if painful gift: an opportunity to search for fresh new ways to serve my purpose.

Unexpectedly, that quest has brought me here. Even though I fear my words cannot match this moment, I pray what I am feeling in my heart will be communicated clearly enough that those who hear me will say, 'We must act.'

Al Gore, accepting the Nobel Prize

As Tim Grieve reminds us on Salon's War Room, "On the night of Tuesday, Dec. 12, 2000, a divided Supreme Court issued its opinions in Bush v. Gore, assuring that George W. Bush would become the 43rd president of the United States."

It's almost too painful to think about how things might be different today if things had gone differently seven years ago, but at least Al Gore is getting some karmic justice today.

The long goodbye(s)

Chip left this morning for a business trip to Chicago. I say this morning because he did indeed leave our house in the a.m., though he just arrived in the Other Windy City about half an hour ago. A trip that should have taken four hours--including travel time to the airport--wound up taking almost 12, because what would modern-day air travel be without some excruciating delays?

Anyway, the important thing is that I got the crucial text message informing me that the plane had landed safely. For all the traveling the two of us have done, I am still quite uneasy when one of us has to travel alone. I am also a total loss when it comes to goodbyes, especially when it involves my husband.

Chip and I met almost 15 years ago (good lord, really?) and spent the first three years of our dating lives living through that peculiar hell known as the LDR--long-distance relationship. When we first started dating, in 1994, we managed to see each other about every four months. We caught a break in the summer of 1995 when we got to go back to Europe with the Montana Youth Choir. The rehearsals and trip meant that we got to spend almost six weeks together. That fall, he left California to go to Michigan State University for grad school, while I continued on for my last year at the University of Montana. That year we were able to see each other about every two months, which was a vast improvement but still led to increasing suckiness every time we had to leave.

By the time I started grad school in Connecticut in 1996, we were down to a month between visits--and the kind of soul-crushing goodbyes that poisoned at least the last half of each trip. To this day I have an automatic tear reflex when I walk into an airport. When Chip got his job at UMass-Amherst in 1997, we found a way to see each other--and I'm not exaggerating here--more or less every day, even though we lived 90 miles apart and had only one car. We finally made it to the same state after we got married.

All of which is a long, long way of explaining why the two of us don't spent all that much time in separate states/countries anymore. I know plenty of wonderful couples who endure long or frequent separations, but I just can't be one of them. We did that for long enough in the early years.

Only four more days.

Dirty

When we first told Connery about the pregnancy, he told us that he wanted to be at the birth. Once we explained to him--in general terms, mind--what that would entail, he changed his mind rather quickly, which was just fine with us. I know there are people who believe that giving birth is just another day in the human race and so should not be hidden away in a hospital room, and I respect that. But I think it would be hard to explain to a four year old exactly why his mother sounds like a rhino imitating Ethel Merman. Anyway, the point is that Connery does not want to be at the birth, and I am relieved.

I was, however, hoping to take him to the big 20-week ultrasound, the one where you can usually find out the sex of the baby. We've talked a lot about taking "pictures" of the baby, and he has been all for it. Which is why I was surprised when someone asked about his coming to the ultrasound and I said he would be coming, he looked at me like I was crazy. Confused, I asked him why he didn't want to come.

"When babies come out, they are dirty," he proclaimed. They need to be cleaned up before anyone sees them."

I don't ever remember telling him that babies come out dirty, but that's how a preschool mind works, apparently. When I reassured him that I only wanted him to come for the picture-taking, he was mollified. I expect this will not be the last misconception we're clearing up.

Just in time for the holidays

Dan and Audrey are showing impeccable timing with the launch of their online store for Uncornered Market. If you're anything like me, your Christmas shopping is in, shall we say, a nascent stage, and you're in desperate need of a source for unique gifts for your loved ones. Look no further. The photos are great, and the content will please everyone on your list--from the gourmets to the gardeners.

(Please note that this is not a paid endorsement. Except that when Dan and Audrey do eventually return to the United States, I will expect them to cook us a nice dinner like they used to when we all lived in Prague. They just don't know it yet.)

Happy shopping!